


Brave Soldier Boy (Come Marching Home)

by AuroraKant



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: And Maybe Some Of Them Realize What Being A Hero Did To Them, Angst, As A Theme That Gets Discussed, BAMF Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Child Heroes Are Inherently Bad, Depression, Dick Grayson Gets a Hug, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, It is there, Look..., Low On The Comfort Tho, Mortality, Questions of Morality, References to Depression, YeetDC2020, but not all that much, child heroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:08:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24324067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraKant/pseuds/AuroraKant
Summary: And yet… Dick knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop. He would never be able to stop, not until his body forced him to. He was born into athleticism and formed into a weapon at a young age. He was at top physical form, the peak human condition. But Dick could already feel himself break. How much longer would he be able to pretend? For how much longer would Nightwing be able to fly, to save the world?For how much longer would Dick Grayson be allowed to exist?Because if there was a Dick Grayson without Nightwing, Dick didn’t know him. If there was a part of him that existed without the hero-persona lurking behind, then Dick had no idea what part that was.Or: Dick questions what being a child hero really means, and Uncle Clark is there to listen
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Clark Kent
Comments: 48
Kudos: 220
Collections: Gotham Square (Batfam Discord Fics)





	Brave Soldier Boy (Come Marching Home)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandom_Trash224](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Trash224/gifts).



> Hiya, Peeps!  
> I wanted to post the next chapter of Only One Mer tonight, but seems like you are going to get that one tomorrow:  
> Instead I grand you this: [The Batfam Discord](https://discord.gg/TwByCy) and very specifically Twilly wanted a deeper look into what it meant to be a child hero - and how long lasting the effects of entering the business as a child would be!  
> Have fun with this!  
> Comments, Kudos, Bookmarks and the knowledge that you read and enjoyed it, make me super-duper happy! <3

The sun was shining and yet it’s light didn’t reach inside of Dick. He was too angry for that, too desperate. Too sad.

Things hadn’t been going great for some time now, his joints creaking and cracking whenever he heaved his body out of his bed in the mornings, his back permanently hurting ever since Killer Croc threw him into a pillar two years prior, his skin mottled with more scars than any human could count.

He was twenty-six, and his body was falling apart.

He was twenty-six and hadn’t managed to rest for seventeen years. He was twenty-six and had never managed to leave his dad and his mission behind for more than a few months. He had never made it further away than New York, and even then, he had returned when Bruce had called.

Just as he would jump at the opportunity to help him now, if Bruce were to call.

Because if there was one thing Dick was incapable of, it was stopping. Even though his body was falling apart, even though his head was caught up in more trauma than a normal human should be allowed to experience, Dick knew he wouldn't stop. That was the reason why he was such a great hero after all, his stubbornness, his drive pushing him forward even when everyone told him to give up, but it was also what was slowly killing him.

Dick didn’t even know why it had hit him today of all days, this feeling of despair and anger and grief for himself. There was no death anniversary around the corner, no world changing event lurking in the back of his mind. Neither Jason, nor Damian, nor his parents, nor Bruce, nor Donna, nor Wally, nor Roy… (holy fuck) had died today. None of them had come back from the dead on this day and as far as Dick was aware, none of them were missing or celebrating a birthday either.

And yet… and yet Dick had opened his eyes this morning knowing that it would be a bad day. He had left his bed behind, doing his morning stretches, making coffee, all the while every muscle in his body burned, every movement hurt with the memories of countless injuries. He had woken up today with the knowledge that he was getting older – and that getting older in the hero business meant only one thing: Dying.

Dick didn’t want to die. He wanted to live with a desperation that was hard to grasp. He was passionate when it came to living. He was the burning beacon of hope in the superhero community. He was the funny, joyful, elegant one. The one, the young heroes looked up to, and the old ones respected.

And yet… Dick knew that he wouldn’t be able to stop. He would never be able to stop, not until his body forced him to. He was born into athleticism and formed into a weapon at a young age. He was at top physical form, the peak human condition. But Dick could already feel himself break. How much longer would he be able to pretend? For how much longer would Nightwing be able to fly, to save the world?

For how much longer would Dick Grayson be allowed to exist?

Because if there was a Dick Grayson without Nightwing, Dick didn’t know him. If there was a part of him that existed without the hero-persona lurking behind, then Dick had no idea what part that was.

He had been doing this for too long. Dick Grayson and Robin and Nightwing were one and the same. Were one person and not three. One of them unable to exist without the others.

Bruce separated himself from Batman; the two of them being father and mentor respectively, but never at the same time. But Bruce had been the age Dick was now when he first donned the cape and the cowl. He had already known who Bruce Wayne was.

Dick never had a change to meet a Dick Grayson that wasn’t… a soldier.

Maybe that was why Dick had chosen to spend his day in the sunlight instead of hidden away in his bedroom with the curtains drawn. Maybe some part of him wanted to see the light, just to remind himself that today might be a bad day, but that there was more to being a hero, more to being him, than just the aches and pains that forced themselves into the forefront of his mind every now and then.

But still, even with his feet dangling over the edge of the roof of his Blüdhaven apartment building, the sun warming his skin, Dick felt lost. Angry. Sad.

He was grieving. For once in his life it wasn’t a friend, it wasn’t family, that sent pangs of loss through his heart; it was his own past that made him bathe in sorrow. All the opportunities he’d never had. All the pain he had been forced to endure. All the horrors he had seen when he had been too young, too fragile, too _whole_.

He was grieving for himself and for once, not even the beautiful Blüdhaven skyline could quell this special kind of pain.

Maybe that was why he wasn’t surprised when the soft sound of feet touching down on rooftop gravel forced Dick to turn around, his thoughts too caught up in his own mind to really care about Clark showing up unannounced.

The man in question looked regal as always, even in his ratty jeans and reporter jacket, time having less of an effect on the body of Kryptonians, than it had on the bodies of humans. Clark’s steps were always light, never changing, never being pulled down by gravity like Dick’s were.

But, no, that wouldn’t do the reporter justice; Dick more than aware that the horrors Clark dealt in where just as gruesome as the stuff Dick lived through – maybe even more so since the only mark it could leave was on Clark’s mind, the body indestructible, the head less so.

“Hi, Uncle Clark.”

“Hi, Dick… How you’re doing?”

Clark’s voice was full of compassion, the man probably using his super-hearing or his x-ray eyes to see and hear and know how shitty Dick felt – both mentally and physically. But this one question was enough. Dick wasn’t made to be strong, at least not today. No, today he was weak, today he let the tears spill, the tears he would normally swallow down and hide behind a smile:

“Why is life this unfair?”

“Because people have free will. Because people can make their own choices. And they aren’t always nice or fair or righteous, so with their choices the world tilts a bit, becomes bit more unfair. And that forces more and more people to make decisions that aren’t nice, aren’t _fair_ … and so on.”

It was his Uncle Clark voice – a voice Dick was pretty sure only he and a handful of other people had ever heard – that tried to sooth Dick’s nerves. That tried to make everything better. The man had crossed the distance between them while he spoke, his large frame taking a seat next to Dick, his feet joining Dick’s above the abyss.

“ _But I had no choice_. At least not a real one.”

“Huh?”

Clark was looking at him, Dick knew it, but he couldn’t return the favor. It was so much easier to stare into the slowly wandering sun, to watch the reflection of lights dancing across windows and old glass décor, than to meet the eyes of his honorary uncle, when Dick spoke next:

“When I went out crime fighting. I was nine when I found Zucco, ten when I begged Bruce to let me fight crime with him on the regular, eleven when Robin was as much a part of Gotham as Batman was… and people always say, I made a _choice_ …”

The tears that dripped down his cheeks onto his Gotham U hoodie wouldn’t stop. Each word that left his mouth was another brick in the space Dick built for himself to finally – _finally_ – share his pain, his thoughts with the world. Each word hurt, but probably only because it was true.

“I was _eleven_. I didn’t know better. I couldn’t make that choice. But _he_ should’ve known that. They _both_ should’ve. They let me out there… they let me fight and called it a choice, when it was their job to keep me safe.”

Dick didn’t have to say any names. He didn’t have to point fingers. They both knew who he was talking about: Bruce and Alfred. The two people who had taken him in, who had given him a home and hope after his parents had died… only to make Dick into something he would have never become hadn’t it been for Batman. For _the mission_.

And Dick was mourning this child. This child, who could have had anything. Who could have had loving foster parents who always remembered his school recitals and his birthdays. Who could have had friends who didn’t die, or hobbies that didn’t involve defying death. Who could have had love and happiness and not paid the price that Dick never stopped paying.

Clark was a solid presence by his side, his warmth the only thing keeping Dick upright, and Dick was grateful that the man had found him, that one person decided to look out for him, to listen when Dick needed someone so desperately to do just that.

“I am so sorry to hear that, Dick, I… the Justice League didn’t feel comfortable when Bruce told us about you. But that is an easy way out, isn’t it? We let it happen after all.”

“It’s not your fault… I am not even sure if I can fault Bruce… he was young. He didn’t know any better… just… I was _eleven_ , Clark. I was eleven when I first hit a pedophile who wanted to feel me up with a roundhouse kick. I was twelve when the Joker tied me to a bomb and tried to drown me in Gotham Harbor. I was thirteen when Two-Face beat me half to death and… and… Bruce tried to fire me that time, he did, he tried to take Robin away… but can you believe that it was already too late? I was thirteen and… _and it was already too late_ …”

Dick knew he was no longer making sense, his thoughts a mess, his body shaking with the sobs escaping him. But he had to keep on talking. He had to keep on saying this. At least once. Just this one time… Tomorrow he could go back to acting as if everything was alright. Tomorrow Dick Grayson would smile again, would crack a joke, and tell everyone to worry about themselves before they took care of him… but it wasn’t tomorrow yet.

“I have no idea who I am anymore, Clark. I have been doing this for almost seventeen years… I am… I have been a vigilante almost twice the time I have been a child. I am one of the most seasoned heroes out there… only you and a handful of others doing this for longer… I… I will probably die doing this. Clark… they say I made a choice… but did I really? Because I know I’m not strong enough to stop. I know that I no longer have a choice in this at all… so did I really have one to begin with?”

It felt wrong when the strongest arms in the universe engulfed Dick in a hug. It felt wrong, when Clark started rubbing his back, making soothing sounds while Dick’s tears stained his jacket wet. Because Dick had said the truth.

He would probably die doing this.

He didn’t know who he was anymore.

He had been doing this for so long that the memory of punches, and kicks, and hits felt more real than the distant idea of his parents offering a hug.

But Clark wouldn’t let him go, not even when the sobs became weaker and the shaking stopped, not even when Dick started to struggle, the embarrassment over the situation growing stronger than the need for closeness and reassurance.

Clark shifted then, making room for Dick under his arm, pressing him close still, but letting Dick breathe again as well:

“I am so incredibly sorry… I wish I had known. I wish I had done something even without knowing anything at all. I…”

“It isn’t your fault.”

Dick’s voice sounded rough, but at least he was no longer openly crying. A tiredness had settled in his bones, next to the aching muscles and creaking joints, reminding him of the fact that not only his body was older than its years, but his soul as well.

“Just you listening right now is more… more than I could have asked for.”

“No problem, buddy. And I wish I would have been here to listen before. And I am more than ready to listen some more. You can keep on talking?”

It was hard to turn his head so he was able to see Clark’s face, but when Dick managed it, there was only open compassion visible behind Clark’s glasses. He wanted Dick to talk more. He wanted him to share, but Dick wasn’t sure he was capable of doing that:

“What? What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing if you don’t want to, but… what did Bruce do back then?”

“Nah, it’s alright, just… Bruce and… and Alfred as well… they always present it as a choice I made. I was ten and I had caught my parent’s killer. It had been great. Oh, god, it had been wonderful. I felt on top of the world. And then… _I wanted more_. I… I threatened Bruce that I would go out anyways, that I would save the city myself, if he didn’t make me Robin… and he caved. He trained me. He took me into the city. But… _I was ten_.”

Dick hadn’t broken the eye contact while he talked, his silent, steely voice in a direct contrast to the crying mess he had been only minutes earlier:

“I was ten. I… legally, I couldn't even choose the school I wanted to go to or if I wanted to buy a soda or not, but me deciding to sacrifice my childhood, my happiness, _myself,_ for a cause so much bigger than a ten-year-old can understand? Somehow that was okay. Somehow that was _my choice_. And…”

Dick had so much to say, so many words burning him from the insides, desperate to escape into the world, that he continued:

“And… on some level I understand why Bruce did it. I can see how he had honestly just no idea what crime fighting would do to a child… but Alfred? _And I love him, I really, really do_ … but Alfred knew what was going to happen. He knew that I wouldn’t be able to separate myself from Robin in the same way Bruce could. He is an intelligent man; he has a past in the military and theater… he had to know that I would be eaten alive by this thing called vigilantism.”

And that was the problem, wasn’t it? That Dick loved these people, that Bruce was his dad and Alfred his grandfather, even if their decisions, their indecisiveness, and their calculated looking away, had sent Dick on a path that could only lead to self-destruction.

But he loved them. He loved being a hero. He loved being alive.

It was just hard sometimes to know, that being okay was no longer an option. At least not for him. Not for any of the first generation of sidekicks and child soldiers.

“Do you know why we founded the Teen Titans?”

“No.”

There was a hint of Superman in Clark’s tone, a hint of a man so angry at the world, he tried to save it just out of spite. It felt good. It felt right. Dick was tired of being the only person mad all the time, the only person dealing with this shit, even if he wasn’t:

“To make sure the rest of the young ones don’t end up like us. They deserve better. And we can’t stop them – just as you weren’t able to stop us, once Robin met Kid Flash, met Speedy, met Wonder Girl… but we can make sure they don’t end like us. We can make sure that they have options. That they know they can leave. That they know that there is a person behind the mask… That there is more to life than being a hero-”

Dick was so, so tired, but he was not ready to break yet. He wasn’t allowed to: 

“We decided to be the safety net none of us had growing up – _That’s why we founded the Titans_.”

There was a suspicious wetness in the corners of Clark’s eyes, and Dick wanted to look away, let his gaze wander over rooftops and windowpanes again, but Clark wouldn’t let him. Superman’s hands were smooth when they forced Dick to keep on looking, to keep on listening:

“I… I am so sorry. The entire Justice League failed you. _I_ failed you. Your _dad_ failed you. We abandoned you, or ignored the problem, because we weren’t able to face it...… just… I love you, Dick, and I am so sorry that none of us noticed how much we hurt you. That Superman might have saved the world, but that he couldn’t manage to save his favorite nephew- I want to say ‘lean on me’, but I’m not sure how much comfort that actually brings.”

Dick stared at Clark, at the tears running down a perfect face, at the grief and the anger someone else felt for him. Someone who knew what Dick had lost. Someone so untouched by the horrors they both saw on the daily, that their hands were still soft, where Dick’s never were. Someone so broken by what they experienced each day, that their mind had to suffer almost constantly under the knowledge that they couldn’t save everybody.

Someone who had finally listened to what Dick had so desperately needed to say.

“Dick… I can do nothing to change the past, and I am not sure if you’d be willing to risk yet another world ending event for the Flash to try it, but… I want you to know that I _hear_ you. I am here for you. You… it doesn’t make it right, but I want you to know that… that maybe we can try being human together? Just Clark Kent and Dick Grayson… no one else, especially no Nightwing or Superman, in sight…”

“They don’t exist”

“Maybe not… but we can still try.”

Clark was hugging him again, Dick’s face once again pressed against the solid warmth of his uncle, and for the second time this day, Dick cried. Only this time it felt a bit easier. A bit less like death, and a bit more like hope.

It wasn’t okay. Dick knew he would never be okay. He had been too young for that the first time he faced a murderer, the first time he got stabbed and walked it off.

But he knew he would smile again tomorrow. He would go out and fight crime. He would listen to Tim and Damian and Mia and Raven and Gar, just to make sure they didn’t end up like him. He would ask Roy to look after himself. And he would call Bruce to remind him of Tim’s upcoming science project. He would make a joke while out on patrol with Jason and he would tease Babs over the comms. He would be the Dick they needed, the Nightwing they craved.

He would smile again tomorrow.

He would smile again tomorrow, and maybe he would even try to be just Dick Grayson for once.

**Author's Note:**

> And check out [my Tumblr](https://sassydefendorflower.tumblr.com/) if you want to yell at me! :D


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